


mysteries in the mystery shack

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: an assorted set of short fics about stan and ford that i'll add to as i write 'em





	1. busted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you remind him of a songbird trapped in a cage.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ford tries to look you in the eye and you duck from his view, embarrassed. He’s beaming at you, which certainly isn’t helping how mortified you feel; you mumble your excuse from behind your hands. Ford gently pries them away, not noticing how tightly he holds them when he does— you don’t tell him otherwise.

“What do you mean you didn’t know? I mean, I certainly didn’t know you could do that!”

He caught you singing in the gift shop. That old cliche, but without the shower, at least. Mabel sang it earlier, before she and Dipper ran out with Stan to who-knows-where. You thought you were alone… with the song stuck in your head. Playing it off your phone’s small speakers, you quietly started humming, which turned into much louder singing as the song played, twirling around the gift shop on your own as you restocked. Voice reverberating around the house, you’d usually quiet yourself at home but this time you let yourself be loud— nobody’s home, anyway.

It’s only when you finish the song and turn to the vending machine that you see Ford standing slack-jawed at the basement door.

Ford smiles fondly, letting go of your hands. One of his rubs the back of his neck before both tuck into his coat’s pockets.

“You looked so happy.” His honesty makes you blush scarlet further, and your bashful smile isn’t missed. “Why have you never sung for me before?”

You stutter honesty— you don’t think you were that good. Singing is reserved for your own company: in the car, in an empty house, in the Shack when everyone’s gone. Ford’s disappointment betrays him in his expression and you dip your head down, scuffing your shoe against the rug.

Fingers tuck under your chin and tilt your head up, and Ford’s eyes meet yours, warm and brown and staring deep. His hands slide to the edges of your jaw and he gently rubs his thumb across your cheekbone, smiling ever wider.

“You’ve got a wonderful voice. I mean it,” Ford affirms with a chuckle as you try and escape the eye contact. “I won’t force you to if you don’t feel comfortable, but you should sing more often. Hearing you from downstairs… You drew me up here by that alone.”

He’s sincere, so sincere, and you lean into his gentle touch, reaching up to curl your hands around his atop your face. A murmured thank you leaves your lips before you smile up at him, pulling a bright blush from Ford.

“If you ever find yourself… in want of an audience. Perhaps you don’t, but— I’d be happy to hear more.” He offers it nonchalantly, but you catch his hopeful gaze. You tell him maybe. Maybe, you repeat, as Ford’s grin widens, but he’s taken it as an affirmative. He leans down and holds you against his chest, kissing the top of your head, both cheeks, then you.

(A few days later you hear yourself, static-echoed and quiet, coming from the basement and peek to investigate; seems Mabel found the security camera footage and gave it to Ford, deciding he needed it far more than Stan.)


	2. hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a special purchase makes him hot under the collar.

Now he knows you’ve not worn that before.

Stan straightens, eyes threatening to pop from the sockets as he watches you reach to slide snow-globes onto a high shelf. He recognizes the t-shirt you’re wearing as it rides up around your waist with your stretch, but what’s underneath is something unfamiliar and _entirely_ welcomed.

It’s lace, he knows that much. Peeking above the hem of your jeans is something _lacy_ and _black_ and _oops_ he’s staring. As well as spilling droplets of lukewarm coffee onto his lap, since he’s frozen mid-sip, the brim of the cup an inch from his lips.

You don’t notice. You’re still humming to yourself to the tinny radio on the checkout counter, standing on your tiptoes to stock the knick-knacks in neat lines. However, you’re not _completely_ oblivious; his sudden hitch in breath when you bend at the waist to pick up the box of snow-globes cuts through the quiet music like scissors to paper.  
You know what you’re doing.

Slowly straightening back up, you pretend to examine one of the souvenirs in your hand before going back to putting them up on the shelf. Your shirt sits rumpled around your waist, your fun new purchase on full display as you scrutinize the snow-globe. Stan’s in the corner of your vision, red as his bolo tie and struggling to find a point on the wall he can look at instead. He’s failing miserably.

You won’t poke fun at him just yet, though. There’s still souvenirs to restock, after all.

Getting to work on stacking hats on the next shelf, you tug your shirt down so Stan’s gaze can stop drilling a hole into the small of your back and start humming again, pretending nothing happened. Eventually, Stan goes back to business as well, sipping coffee and counting the money from the day’s work— though you catch him glancing at you every few moments, eyes flitting between the wad of cash and you from behind his thick glasses.

The last hat lands atop its short stack of copies and you stretch your arms out in front of you with a yawn… Then reach and stretch your arms straight above your head.

The cash register drawer pings open with a ring of a bell. You pretend not to notice.

A breeze from the AC unit hits your stomach as your shirt hem rises, raising goosebumps along your midriff that shoot up and down your spine like a jolt of lightning when you catch Stan staring at you incredulously.

Actually, there’s a better word for his furrowed brow, out-jutting bottom lip, dark eyes. Hungrily is the best choice for that expression at the moment.

A lilt of innocence tints your words as you ask if there’s a problem, Mister Pines, did you not stack the hats right?

Stan laughs— it’s a deep, throaty chuckle that makes those lightning-strike goosebumps ride against the bones of your back, melting into something warm in the pit of your stomach.

“Actually, kid, meant to tell ya earlier… you missed a spot when you were cleanin’ the counter.”

The counter he’s very conveniently standing behind, arms folded across his chest. You arch a brow, wondering aloud how you could’ve missed a spot, you cleaned it just before you started re-stocking…

“C’mere, it’s over on this side.”

Two can play this game.

You saunter over to the counter and squint at the “spot” he’s pointing at, finding it’s a dark swirl in the wood’s finish. Your protest starts and finishes in the back of your throat as you feel wide palms at your hips, fingernails digging into both lace and denim as Stan slowly turns you around to face him— then your feet leave the ground as he sits you atop the counter.

You ask about the spot on the counter you’ve now parked your butt on top of, but lose your train of thought as he slides his hands under your shirt to feel the lace garter belt under your clothes. He scoffs to your comment as you open your legs, letting him stand between them, his face just a breath away from yours.

“Leave it ’til later. We’re just gonna get the counter dirty again anyway.”


	3. lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he never told you about them for a reason.

“Hey, I need your help with—“

He stops dead in his tracks, one boot deep into the basement when you whirl around to face him, beetroot-red with your hands full of papers. He doesn’t think of it at first— he’s more surprised at your open mouth and wide eyes of shock— but his gaze travels down to the evidence trapped between your curious fingers and he flinches, frozen solid.

You were sweeping, in your defense. Ford Pines keeps his home in a forever state of disarray, papers upon papers and crescent-moon coffee stains on tables, dust bunnies hopping in light streaking through finger-smudged window-panes. On first glance, the stuffed papers beneath his desk are uniform; you’ve found paper there before, scrapped sketches of various anomalies and scribbled notes that he declared unfit for use. For no particular reason whatsoever, you decided this stack of papers worthy of studying further, shuffling through the crumpled treasure and expecting equations, chicken-scratch, drawings. Drawings of monsters, hilariously ugly things you find in the forests when running over crunching leaves with Ford’s coat flapping in the wind.

Drawings of _you_ are what you find. Ford’s secret blown, obliterated to off-yellow pieces of paper with pencil sketches of you all over them in various stages of living. There you are asleep on the couch, dead to the world like you were last Wednesday; one of you reading, cross-legged on the floor, an almost dreamy expression on your face; you’re writing on the chalkboard, mid-word, a smile on the edge of your lips.

They’re beautiful.

You’re on the cusp of saying it aloud when Ford turns tail and _runs_.

Utterly shocked for a beat, you stand in place and watch him go before coming back to your senses and following soon after, calling his name as you scale the stairs (skipping one between, as Ford does to get upstairs faster). He’s found a dead end in the kitchen, his back to you, rain slanting against the window as drops race to the edge of the sill.

You call his name, slightly out of breath from the dash upstairs. He won’t look at you, opting to watch your reflection through the glass instead.

“You… weren’t supposed to find those.”

His murmur’s nearly drowned out by the rain. You step forward to touch his arm, but he stiffens through his shirt, the fabric taut against his shoulder-blades.

“I can’t— I don’t have an excuse for them, I’m afraid.”

He’s afraid. You’re nervous. It’s in how your hands shake and his eyes catch yours in the mirror of the window-pane. You look away simultaneously. It makes something flutter to the top of your ribcage, light as a bird, before it collapses into the pit of your stomach as a boulder in water. It makes something under the wafer-thin skin of your wrists and neck race.

You stand next to him at the window. He doesn’t move, but you catch his breath getting stuck in his throat; the two of you stand like this at the chalkboard, shoulder to shoulder, but without the board as a topic of conversation, you are both, uncharacteristically, lost for words.  
His name forms on your tongue and you open your mouth to say it, but he cuts you off before you start with—

“Please don’t say anything.”

His voice cracks on the last word. From the corner of your eye, you see his head duck into his chest. He stares at his hands, scrutinizing the digits.

“I… I’ve never had the best luck with this.” He laughs brokenly. “I was more concerned with my studies when I went to college, of course, and didn’t have time for– for dating. I figured things would be the same here. Until I hired you.”

Ford watches the rain; you follow his gaze outside, watching the trees sway in the storm’s harsh blow.

“I knew from the moment you stepped into my office that you were special. Meant for something— like I am. We could find those somethings _together_. I still want to, but…”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. You dare to reach over and take his hand— he holds onto you like a vice.

You tell him you’re sorry. That you should’ve seen this earlier… That you could’ve saved him the heartache. You squeeze his hand but he’s cold between your fingers.

_You’re my best friend, Ford._

It’s like you loaded a gun and shot him. 

Your hands slip apart and his absent touch makes your fingers stretch out, curling in on themselves with an invisible hand to hold between them. Ford stills, but his shoulders shake. You watch his reflection instead of himself, finding his face lost within the weather. You went to the movie theater yesterday, to that film based off the book about electric sheep that Ford adores. How quickly the drawings in your hand (which you drop distractedly, they flutter to the floor like leaves) and the moments you shared with Ford disappear.

Like tears in rain.


	4. studying, sort of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you two are really bad at homework.
> 
> (part one)

You tell him, quietly, that it’s trivial; your homework is more important, what with your finals around the corner. He goes to abide but the second knuckles rap on the door he stops— your noticeable flinch tells him all he needs to know.

(It’s just some lost student, thankfully. He directs them to the right room and clicks the door shut— along with the lock.)

“It doesn’t look _“trivial”_.”

Ford sits back across from you at the table, carefully closing his calculus textbook and tucking his notes inside as a makeshift bookmark. The fact that you’ve taken your studious tutor away from homework certainly means you’ve got his attention, and you can’t help but feel flattered.

“Is something going on? — You don’t have to talk if you don’t feel comfortable enough to, but… I’d like to think we’re… friends.”

You are, you reassure him, almost too quickly. He helped you through two semesters of calculus, somehow managing to explain the material far better than your certified professor could. Not that you’re surprised: you heard rumors of Stanford (“Ford, just Ford”) Pines long before you met him, and the fact that he volunteered to be your tutor is a miracle in of itself. The two of you became fast friends— evidently, a friend was something he needed.

Ford looks pleased for a beat, but his expression quickly shifts back to concern. You try and hide by ducking your head down towards your notes, but he puts his hand over the page and slides it across the table, your gaze following it until you meet his eye. He clears his throat, apparently unsettled by your focused eyes meeting his, and you catch pink across his cheekbones.

“I mean it, y’know. You were there for me when I needed it… The least I can do is reciprocate.”

You try to change the subject again, swerving past the problem, but your voice cracks and puts any stop to distractions.

“What’s the matter? You can… you can tell me.”

But you can’t.

You apologize for the brief moment of sappiness, wiping your eyes and taking a breath. An incredibly forced smile takes over and you make up a terrible, terrible lie about a scary movie you watched last night with— oh, right.

“Yeah, I figured.”

Ford’s never been the biggest fan of your boyfriend. You’ve not been sure why, but every time you mention him he gets quiet and almost… annoyed. If you were proud enough you’d chalk it up to jealousy, but you’re fairly certain Ford’s not one for dating. He’s _Ford_ , and Ford currently has the exact expression on his face that he wears whenever you talk about your partner. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and avoiding his eye.

“… Is something going on? With him?”

He goes to pat your arm but you instinctively move back in your seat.

Ford’s shoulders sink and his desolate frown makes you feel even worse. You try and backtrack, tell him it was just a little fight, there’s nothing too big going on—

A sudden, loud slam from his side of the table makes you jump, yelp, and promptly cover your head. Ford picks up the calc textbook and puts it back on the table, his eyes worried.

“That gives me an answer, then.”

You hug your knees to your chest in the desk chair, silent. Ford stands, walks around the table, and takes the chair at your side, wheeling it to face you.

“If you want to, you can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, I-I promise. You can trust me.”

Tucking your head against your curled up legs, you hope Ford doesn’t catch how your shoulders shake with a suppressed sob. He does. You don’t see his crushed expression as he hesitantly reaches forward once more, taking your free hand and squeezing it lightly before letting go. You lift your head up, sniffling and trying to wipe your face with the back of your hand.

“It’s okay, just, uh, just let it out. Well, we don’t have tissues in here so maybe not all of it at once, but—“

You laugh, and Ford’s dorky smile makes you think that it might really be okay. Taking in a breath, you start to try and explain, losing your words and stuttering every so often, but judging by Ford’s mixture of anger, horror, and melancholy across his features, you got the main point across.

“I… Why didn’t you– Well, that part makes sense. But… God, you don’t deserve this.”

Something meek and tired within you makes you mumble that you might. By now you’ve untangled your legs from your chest and you’ve hunched forward, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Ford wheels his chair closer and covers your hand in both of his, giving you such a tender look that you have to look away.

“You _don’t_. Nobody does. Especially not you.”

He doesn’t have a bruise to kiss better, a black eye to ice. But it feels like Ford healed you in some way or another, even with something as simple as that.

“Maybe it is just stress… But even so. You need to be treated better than this. You’re— You’re a wonderful person, kind and sweet and always listening to me ramble about nothing—“

You interject to say it’s not _nothing_ , but Ford shushes you before you even start.

“— I mean to say… It’s up to you how you handle it. I don’t control your life— but neither does he. He says you need to be your own person, stand up for yourself… You do. But he’s not excluded from that list.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until Ford wipes a tear away with a shaking thumb.

“You were trying. You _are_ trying. The fact that he bats away any help you offer… says more about him than you. That’s not fair of him to do to you.”

Ford nods, continuously, until you start to timidly nod back. He smiles warmly and you feel something in your chest lift; you roll your shoulders back, standing a little taller. He lets go of your hands and stands, wheeling his chair back to its home at the table. He goes to gather his stuff up, but before he turns around you wind your arms around his middle, resting your head on his chest.

You hear a sharp intake of breath but Ford doesn’t move, and neither do you. A flutter of paper tells that Ford _dropped_ his notes preceding returning your embrace, an arm tight around your waist and a hand at the back of your neck, securing you against him. He’s warm— as you’d expect in that sweater vest— and even through the thick fabric you feel his pulse beat against your temple, quickened in pace.

You thank him in a murmur for listening to you, rubbing his back. Ford’s silent, reaching to push his glasses up his nose before replying.

“I— Anytime. Really. I’m here if you, ah, need me. For anything.”

Especially calculus homework, you laugh, looking up at him. As soon as you do Ford tilts his head down, dark gaze on yours. There’s that tender again; the sweetness you haven’t seen in his eyes before, except for quick seconds before he regains focus and looks back to whatever you were studying. Maybe there’s something in your hair or on your face or… something. Though Ford doesn’t examine: he’s staring so into your eyes you can’t help but stare back.

His hand still rests at the nape of your neck. The space between the two of you, small and quiet, doesn’t shift, and you find yourself transfixed. Ford’s attention flits between your eyes and your parted lips— his blush spread from his face to the tips of his ears. He’s always been attractive, but… You realize how you could just… lean forward a little. See what happens.

You can’t. You’re not Ford’s. As much as you suddenly want to be.

You break away, afraid to look at him as you stuff your belongings into your backpack, thanking him for the studying help in one frazzled breath.

“Oh, uh, of course. Happy to help with whatever subject you need.”

Ford sounds forlorn and you catch his fingers stretch, flex, and curl into fists. They’re shaking… You almost ask why, but you have a feeling you know the answer.

He meets you at the door of the conference room and flips the lights, locking the door behind him.

“Same time next week, then? — Unless you’re, y’know, busy.” He shoulders his bag and shrugs, acting aloof as best he can.

You tell him you’ll be here, as always. He smiles wide and you mirror him, laughing quietly in the library hall. You check the clock over Ford’s shoulder but he watches at you, instead, and the weight of his attention on you makes you stutter through your goodbye. Before Ford goes to say anything, though… You’re wondering what would happen if you… But you can’t. Even with his warm eyes on yours, you can’t.

Ford wishes you goodnight and you go in opposite directions down the hallway. Just before you turn the corner to the stairwell, you turn around, looking back. Ford walks away and you sigh, heading downstairs.

You don’t catch him turn to watch you go.


	5. studying, again, badly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you two are really, really bad at doing homework.
> 
> (part two)

He finds you asleep in one of the library’s many study rooms, pencils tangled in your hair and your textbook acting as a pseudo-pillow. A soft, small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before he walks over and gently pushes your shoulder, effectively rousing you from your accidental nap with a light jolt of surprise. You mumble his name, bleary-eyed, and straighten up in your seat as your tutor sits at your side, patiently waiting as you gradually wake up.

“Burning the candle at both ends, hm?” Ford Pines doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it makes the room he’s in brighten. “Didn’t expect to find you here this late.”

It’s only 9pm, you argue, before checking the wall clock— 1:02am creeped up on you in your sleep, apparently. You give Ford an sheepish shrug and tell of your anthropology test in a few days. He glances at your textbook as you quickly swipe a small puddle of drool off _Australopithecus afarensis’_ skull.

“I understand. I was up here studying for my information theory and signal processing exam next week—“

Because _of course_ he was.

“—When a fellow tutor told me you were asleep up here. Since she knows you from… a class I can’t remember and I from the tutoring program, she figured she’d alert me to your uncomfortable-looking nap.”

You nod, rubbing your eyes and denouncing her under your breath for her nosiness. Ford chuckles.

“Anyway, what are you doing up here? Last time we hung o— studied together, you said you were off to some party tonight.”

You were… Then plans changed. As soon as you mention your boyfriend again Ford’s sunny smile peters out. He decided last minute that no, he couldn’t go, and you didn’t want to be that person and turn up late, so you decided to swap the party for a much-needed camp-out at the library instead. Ford’s unimpressed frown softens when you turn back to the book with a sigh, closing it up with your notes stuffed inside.

“Did he even say _why_ he couldn’t go?”

He didn’t want to drive that far, you mutter, flicking your pencil across the table and watching it roll back down to tap your fingernail. Something about a meeting at some bar tonight he couldn’t miss. You breathe out through your nose and rest your head on your arms atop the desk, pretending you’re not upset, knowing Ford’s too smart to let you get away with bad acting.

“Party probably wasn’t even that fun, anyway.” Ford wavers before leaning forward and pulling one of the pencils from your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and you smile.

You say you know it probably wasn’t as he mirrors your position, leaning to put his head on the table next to yours, resting on his forearms. You’re not much of a party person anyway, admittedly; you wanted to go to see friends and hang out with them so they could get to know your boyfriend more. Once he said he wasn’t going you were too exhausted from talking to him about that nonsense that you came here instead— probably resulting in you falling asleep instead of studying neanderthal teeth.

“Understandable, I have to admit— look at these things. Eugh.” Ford taps the picture of a particularly hairy caveman on the front cover of the book and you giggle, stealing your pencil from his unsuspecting hand to put back in your pencil case. He just reaches and slides a red pen from your hair instead, grinning triumphantly for a beat.

“So he just ditched you because he was too lazy to drive here? It’s only half an hour or so, isn’t it?”

Forty-five minutes, just around. You do it constantly to go see him on the weekends, it’s not so bad. But Ford’s accusing tone makes you backtrack and make excuses, saying he does have a meeting with his friend tonight at that bar, he can’t miss that—

“And he can’t miss drinking more,” Ford mutters out the corner of his mouth. You open your mouth to protest, but…

“I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to sound rude.” He fiddles with your pen instead of meeting your eye. “I just… I hate to see you this way.”

You ask what way, and Ford’s face turns pink under the harsh library lights.

“Every time you’ve talked about him for the past couple of weeks you’ve sounded so sad. Each mention of him makes you sigh in that particular way that makes the front of your hair blow around your face.”

You sigh exactly like that and Ford goes “See? See?” before you start laughing again. His smile is dreamy, distant, yet falls to that concerned frown.

“You don’t deserve this, you know.”

His quiet statement makes the air between you heavy. You look away, but from the corner of your vision Ford’s still focused on your face. As always, you launch into your cavalcade of excuses; how he’s not always this way, sometimes he does come, he’s usually very sweet and caring and buys you dinner a lot and—

“He can’t buy your affection then make you feel guilty about making him spend money. Rather hypocritical.”

Ford quirks a brow and you sigh again.

“His ways of making you feel guilty for wronging him when you’ve not done anything are passive-aggressive taunts, to say the very least. It’s not fair that he knows you’re too sweet to confront him.”

Your expression of shocked flattery makes Ford tint a nice tomato shade of red.

“—A-and the fact that, uh, he knows you won’t… makes him feel like the bigger man all for it. He knows it makes you upset because if you don’t respond in exactly the right way to what he says, he pulls those lines to make you feel worse.”

You sit up and lean back in your chair, silent. Ford follows and folds his arms across his chest, still twirling your pen between his six fingers, the motion almost hypnotizing.

“You know I’m right.”

You turn to face him sharply with your argument on the tip of your tongue but it fizzles out when you see his face reads worry, not arrogance. The pen stops and Ford leans forward to rest elbows on his knees, looking at you with that… that softness, that care that you remember from your physics study session weeks prior. Something in you wants him to look at you like that everyday.

You quickly start gathering your pens together, snatching the red one from Ford to stuff back in your pencil case, and you stutter out an observance of the time and that you should really get home—

Ford blurts your name, hurried in one breath, and you whip your head around to meet his eye. He holds your gaze and you decidedly ignore that you’ve flushed cherry-red.

“I… We’re… friends. I want to make sure you’re as okay as you say you are.”

The truth of it bobs at the back of your throat but you swallow, telling him you’re fine, really, even if the crack in your voice tells otherwise. Ford knows if he presses further it’ll make it worse, so he nods, resigned. He does that stretch, flex, fist with his hand you noticed last time as you stand up, lugging your bag over one shoulder in your signal to leave. You wait at the door as Ford goes to follow you out, but as you open it his hand darts forward and closes it again.

You turn to ask what he’s doing but find both of his hands cupping your jaw and his lips on yours in reply.

He’s soft. Careful. Hesitant. It makes you freeze in place for a split second, and you find yourself with a hand hovering above his chest, eyelids fluttering closed, before you remember— and your hand makes contact, pushing him back a step. Ford’s scarlet in the face, his lips are slightly parted, and both of you stare wide-eyed at the other for a long moment.

A thousand things barrage your brain all at once— shock, panic, embarrassment, shame. Elation. You shove the last one to the back of your head and say “I’ve got to go” in one breath, fumbling to find the door-handle behind you and all but running down the hall.

Ford, naturally, is mortified. He touches his bottom lip with a thoughtful, shaking fingertip.

He knows he wasn’t imagining it when you kissed him back.


	6. studying without books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you're both still bad at homework, but there isn't any to do this time.
> 
> (part 3)

The rest of the semester is... awkward, to say the least. You and Ford don’t hang out quite as often, and when you do, you’re a good few feet apart when he’s helping you with homework. Occasionally he’ll dare to get closer, until his arm brushes yours, but when you look up to find you’re nose-to-nose with him he almost falls backwards with how quickly he scoots away from you.

You must’ve done something wrong, you decide, packing up your things after your last study session. But what?

Finals pass by in a blur. You don’t see Ford again until you come out of the chemistry building simultaneously and nearly collide with each other in the process.

“Oh, I’m sorry, er— Oh!”

Ford lights up when he recognizes you, but quickly regains composure as he quickly steps back, lingering on the edge of your space. You smile, tell him it’s good to see him; you didn’t realize how busy you were going to be until you finished your last final this morning.

“So you’re done? I’ll bet that’s a relief, hm? I have one more this afternoon, but then I’ll be finished.”

Ford rubs the back of his neck, watching the trees dotted around the chem building sway in the light breeze. It ruffles his hair as he pulls his bag onto his shoulder; he looks back to you and smiles, but it’s restrained, somewhat upset. Hurt, almost.

You ask if he’s busy after his exam. Ford flushes red as his shirt and breaks eye contact, thinking.

“N-No, I’m not busy. Why? ... Hang out? With you?”

He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, you let out in a rush, but Ford stutters out “No, I _want_ to! I’m just surprised, is all!” before you make plans to meet up that evening at his apartment.

You don’t tell him you’re nervous. Maybe you’ll finally find out what’s been going on with him.

— — — — —

On the dot of 7:03 pm (there was traffic) you knock on Ford’s door, and within a grand total of two seconds he opens it, newly changed into a denim button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He ushers you inside and clicks the door shut behind you, muttering about the mess, but he stops abruptly when he sees you studying his apartment in awe.

It occurs to you in that moment that you’ve never been in his apartment before. Small, quaint, but one wall’s lined floor to ceiling with shelves stuffed full of textbooks, novels, piles of papers, occasional knick-knacks. Pointing things out, you ask about each in turn and Ford explains— conversation feels easier between the two of you than it has in a long while. You notice some sort of broken machine, coated in dust, on one of the top shelves. Ford stands at your side, following your gaze, and when you ask what the machine is he bristles.

“Ah… An old project from high school. Stopped working, unfortunately.”

He walks past you, into the living room, but he doesn’t sit down on the couch or the armchair. Pacing— he walks back and forth in front of the TV, wringing his hands. You ask what’s wrong and Ford startles, as if he forgot you were there.

“Oh, erm… Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t lie, Ford. Not to you. You walk over to him and try to reach out, touch his arm, but he steps back. The hurt shows plainly on your face; Ford falters.

“I— Please, I can explain—”

Why has he been avoiding you? Why won’t he touch you anymore, get close, why did it _change_ between you and him? Was it because of what happened last semester?

Was it because he kissed you?

He stares you dead in the eye.

“Yes.”

Ford cards shaking fingers through his hair, swallows thickly. He looks pointedly at the floor.

“I... I have _feelings_ for you. I have for… a while. I knew we were student and tutor, and I couldn’t do anything about that, and you also have… _Him.”_

You’d love to ignore how his voice drops in resentment and _anger_ at that last word, but it hits you square in the chest.

“So, I just… focused on work, on my studies. On your studies and on helping you be a better student... and tried to ignore the fact that I fell in love with you along the way.”

Any words you have to say can’t get past the lump in your throat. Ford won’t look at you, hidden behind his hair— but you hear a very quiet and shuddery breath.

“And that I can’t… I can’t _do_ anything about it. I can’t say all of these things, things I want to _tell you_ , because I don’t want you to get hurt. I know how he reacted when you told him I was your tutor. I can’t let— what happened can’t happen _again_ , I can’t…” He wipes at his face and turns on his heel, as if to walk into the kitchen, but you grab his wrist and stop him in his tracks. Ford doesn’t look at you.

Does he not know that you broke up with him?

Your question makes him gasp, quiet but audible enough to make your heart leap.

“You... You did?”

A while ago, you tell him as he turns to face you, his blush spreading from ear-to-ear. You’d thought on what he said, and later what your friends said, and decided you’d had enough. Ford was right, he was too angry, he was... He was...

You can’t quite get the word out. A tear streaks down your face and before you can even register it, he pulls you forward and into his chest, winding both arms around you.

Ford whispers “You’re so _brave”_ into your hair and you crumble.

You tuck your face into his neck and sob. One arm around your waist and the other draped over your shoulders, he holds you tight against him and murmurs soothings to you, hushed in the already near-silent room. You swallow, wriggling your arm free from his embrace and gently cupping his jaw in your hand; he’s warm under your touch and heats up further when you brush your thumb along his cheek. When you look at him Ford’s scarlet in the face, but something in his expression reads curious. Hopeful.

Hopefully he won’t mind when you slide your hand to the back of his neck, pull him forward and breathe your question into the limited space between: Can I kiss you?

Ford barely finishes the upturn of his nod before you close the gap and kiss him, hand in his hair and his gasp in your mouth as he all but _clings_ to you. He reciprocates almost desperately, hands flying to either side of your face and he’s needy but _delicate_. Like you’d break if he pressed harder, held tighter, pushed you against a wall.

(You’re tempted to push him back into the wall separating the living room and the kitchen, but now probably isn’t the right time. You’ll remember that wall for later.)

Ford pulls away and drops his forehead to your shoulder, all heaving breaths and fluttering pulse under your fingertips on his chest. You run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and give him pause, letting him catch up before he lifts his head, dark eyes meeting yours.

“Do you— I know it’s, er, sudden… but do you… feel the same?”

In all honesty, you’re not sure yet. You just got out of a long-term relationship, and not an easy one, at that. You kissed him; you know you feel _something_. But for right now… You need time to recuperate. Time outside of being inside a relationship so you can get back on your feet and figure out who you are again. Find that person again. You tell Ford that, and that you do like him— like _that_ , you clarify, adamant to ignore how warm your face feels when he grins at you— but you need some time, first. If that’s alright with him.

Ford thinks for a long moment. Too long of a moment. You start in with the excuses of how he doesn’t _have_ to wait, you don’t want to make him sit around for you forever, he doesn’t _need_ to— but Ford just starts laughing, shaking his head fondly at you. He sighs, content, before pressing a kiss to your forehead; it’s such a sweet, simple gesture, but it fades any and all doubt from your mind.

“For you, I can wait just a while longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wholly unexpected part three to finish the studying trifecta! an uncharacteristically personal and rather cathartic trilogy that helped me get over some personal stuff that's been going down over the past year or so. i guess it's a fairly obvious thing. but regardless, thank you for reading, if you did, and for liking it so much. <3


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